


unknown

by orphan_account



Series: Smut Promptathon [4]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: AU, AU: the Noldor are physically incapable of NOT getting their leaders captured by Morgoth, Anonymous Sex, Dubiously Consensual Blow Jobs, M/M, Porn with a smidgen of Plot, Sibling Incest, is that the right tag?, there's literally a tag for that huh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-16
Updated: 2014-01-16
Packaged: 2018-01-09 00:06:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1139094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maglor is captured by Angband, and someone comes to him in the darkness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	unknown

**Author's Note:**

> A Maedhros/Maglor prompt from Tumblr that got out of hand and might wind up having a sequel.

"You will only lose another king if you push me to do this," Maglor should have said. "I will not do it," he should have said.  
  
Morgoth must, he thought bitterly, thinking in the darkness, be beside himself with glee at the enemies who would twice send their leaders to ‘negotiate’ - to be captured, overpowered each time by vastly superior forces. It had been a long time since Maedhros - a name they had only given him after he was gone - had vanished into Angband, not even to be found by Fingon, who had gone charging in like an idiot and then mercifully found his way out again. Maglor didn’t want to think about how the political situation would have exploded if Fingon had died while on a mad quest to save Maedhros.  
  
Not that things would be going well now. Fingon had tried his best, in Maedhros’ memory, especially after Maglor had played the card of telling him that Maedhros stood apart when the ships were burned - but now? In Maglor absence the leadership would fall next to Celegorm, and where Celegorm ruled, Curufin also had sway, and neither of them had enough diplomacy to - he tried to search for a proper metaphor - to fill an egg. Negotiate with a tree stump. Any of those seemed like they would apply to them.  
  
There was a creak of the door in the darkness behind him, and he stiffens, making his chains clink - in the past he had scarcely heard them, but his hearing has become more and more sensitive in the dark, until he could make music from a scrape of metal against the ground, a hum so soft nobody else could hear. Comforting, when he was left alone for some time.  
  
He imagines that his captor’s footsteps had a kind of music to them as well. Certainly they follow a rhythm - one that seems quite familiar, now that Maglor had heard it at least a dozen times. He wishes he had a voice to put to it, but the man - Maglor knew very well that his captor was male - never speaks.  
  
Probably not Sauron or Morgoth, but he calls him his captor nonetheless, for nobody else had anything to do with him.  
  
It is disquieting, that, in this seemingly endless darkness, he had grown to look forward to his captor’s visits. They had a little variety to them, at least.  
  
This time, the man stands behind him for a long moment; his breathing rasps a little, in-out-in-out, and Maglor closes his eyes - it made little difference - and counted the breaths. Perhaps he had been receiving orders; Maglor counts exactly eleven breaths, in and out, before his captor moves forward and puts a hand on the top of his head.  
  
His hair is filthy, Maglor knows, after weeks in the dark with no water but what he was given to drink, but his captor does not seem to mind. He tousles the stringy locks gently, the gesture almost affectionate, before crouching down at Maglor’s side. Maglor turns his head at the sound of cloth being shifted, licking his lips a little nervously; he knows what is coming.  
  
The first time the man had come to him, Maglor had fought - struggled when fingers were worked into him, choked on what was thrust into his mouth, screamed questions at the dark.  
  
Now - now, he was almost glad that nobody he had known would see him again. The chains let him shift enough to easily take his captor’s cock in his mouth, and he does, letting it slide in as far as possible. The man’s hand still rests on top of his head, and Maglor knows that if he tries to struggle he would be forced back down; but he no longer does.  
  
_Shameful indeed it is_ , voices in his head whisper to him, _for a son of Fëanor, a former King for however brief a time, to be brought so low._  
  
Maglor can no longer afford pride; he swallows it as he swallows around his captor’s cock, tries to forget that he had once been honored for the songs his tongue could weave as he uses it to lick and probe until he can hear the man groan softly. This, in these blind and unchanging days, was triumph.  
  
And his body, little used to stimulation, has grown to enjoy it. His loins grow heavy at the little gasps he coaxes out of his captor, and when the man pulls his head back, forcing him to let the cock slide from his mouth, and urges him to turn with a prod on the shoulder his own cock begins to fill and harden.  
  
_You do not know who or even what he is,_ the voices whisper in his head again as the dampened head of his captor’s cock presses into his opening. _For all you know it could be a part-orc that takes you, or Sauron playing at some strange game._  
  
Whispers that would have made more sense in the past, that would have caused him pause; but in this reality of darkness and whispered half-tunes and only the touch of one other, silent, being, they no longer seem relevant. He is unhinged from what once was his reality; Macalaurë or Kanafinwë would have not stood for this treatment, perhaps they would have died from it. Maglor is alone in the darkness, and Maglor whimpers when he is entered, part of him simply grateful for any sensation.  
  
Whoever his captor is, he takes his pleasure swiftly and roughly; hips moving in quick jerks, the slap of flesh on flesh adding to the few soft sounds in the darkness. He is large, but Maglor is well used to it by now, and he rides the sensation while he can, gripping the chains so his wrists get some relief. This time the man actually pulls him closer, until Maglor’s back presses against his chest, and his cock strikes a sensitive spot within; and Maglor opens and closes his eyes against the darkness and cries out, and is grateful - with his last tiny flicker of shame - for it.  
  
He comes first, this time, shuddering against the arm that encircled him, and for a moment he can close his eyes and lose himself completely in the bliss of his release. His captor holds him closely, the strength of his grip almost mimicking the caring of a lover.  
  
For a moment, barely aware of his surroundings, he thinks he feels lips gently pressed to his cheek.  
  
Afterward - when the bliss has faded, when with a few more quick, rough thrusts his captor comes and pulls out with scarcely a low groan - a cup of water is held to his lips. He sips, and when it is lowered words slip out without any real intention to say them on his part.  
  
"Thank you."  
  
There seems to be a greater stillness about his captor then usual, then, but he cannot tell what emotion might be behind it.  
  
~  
  
Sauron unfolds from the shadows like a magician’s trick, a tightly folded handkerchief being shaken out to its usual size, in the corridor outside the captive’s room, and smiles at the person who emerges.  
  
"Did you watch today?" his subordinate askes bluntly, not bothering to give a proper greeting.  
  
Sauron raises an eyebrow. “I told you in the past you would not know when I was watching you, sweet one, but no. I was busy. Why do you ask?”  
  
"Merely curious." His subordinate has improved so much since he first gave in and agreed to obey, Sauron observes with happiness - there is scarcely a flicker of emotion on his face, even when he glances back towards the door he just closed. "But I have a request to make."  
  
"Hm?"  
  
"I am not as easily amused as you are, for so long. Let me take him out of there."  
  
"Surely this is not inspired by some soft-heartedness on your part?"  
  
His subordinate meets his eyes coldly. “Would you care if it was?”  
  
"In all truth," Sauron says, laughing, "I do not. You will have to put your request to Lord Melkor, but for all of me you may keep your brother as a pet, Maitimo."  
   
A flinch crosses his subordinate’s face. “Do not call me that.”  
  
Sauron shrugs, uncaring, and moves on. He has little doubt that Melkor will turn down the request - after all, his subordinate had been so dutiful in all they had assigned to him before.  
  
Neither of them, he thinks smugly, could exist outside of Angband now. They were too broken to the way of life here.


End file.
